


The Devils' Cut

by asuralucier



Series: Wick Anonymous [2]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Creepy, Gen, Pre-Canon, Voyeurism, Wedding blues, Whiskey Distillation as Extended Metaphor, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 02:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20538350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: ”Have you ever been to a wedding before?” Winston said, giving Marcus a sidelong glance.Marcus’s gaze did not move. “You mean, ones where I don’t have to off the groom? Not really. Funerals are more my bag.”“Funerals don’t often come with an open bar,” Winston told him. “Let’s get a drink.”(Or: Winston and Marcus attend John’s wedding.)





	The Devils' Cut

“Did you know,” John said, looking between Marcus and Winston, “That this is one of the oldest inns still operating in Vermont? It’s authentic or something.” He was loose-limbed and smelled vaguely of cologne and expensive champagne. There wasn’t yet the obtrusive smell of his new wife. “Really, this place should have cost an arm and a leg, but Helen’s sister used to work here. They really did us a solid.” 

Winston said, “It _is_ lovely, shame it’s in Vermont.” 

John rolled his eyes; the gesture was boyish and inviting, like he wanted to remind them that nothing had changed, though everything had. 

Out of habit, Marcus looked around and saw Helen not too far away, chattering with a couple of her bridesmaids. Looking away, Marcus said, only a little uncharitably, “Did you read that in a damn brochure or did your wife tell you that?” 

“My wife did tell me that,” John said, a spot of pretty red staining his cheeks. To Marcus’s surprise, he did not move to disavow his skin of such truthful color. John wasn't ashamed (he so rarely was), but the man seemed to remember who he was. 

“I do miss the days when you used to regale us about pencils, Jonathan,” Winston stepped forward and pressed a hand meaningfully against the lapel of John’s suit jacket. The touch was restrained yet suffused with years of wanting, but maybe that was only obvious to Marcus because he wanted the same. 

“And if I may say so, that suit is _garish_.” Winston made a face. “Just look at it.” 

John looked down at himself and frowned. Even to Marcus's casual eye, John's current getup was a bad American approximation of...something that was supposed to be a suit, probably. It was ill-fitted, not saved even by John’s frame, usually generous to a fault. “Helen insisted. It was her grandfather’s. I’ll change in a bit.” 

“Hey now,” Marcus said. “Let’s not rip a man apart on the happiest day of his life.” 

John looked at him gratefully. “I’m pretty happy. Thanks for the speech, by the way.” 

The speech. Marcus winced at the memory. “Anytime. Actually, no, don’t ever make me do that again. I’ll pop you one good.” 

John was whisked away to meet Helen’s friends from her university sorority afterwards. The gaggle appeared to be a blur of sameness: long-legged, red-lipped, expensive to maintain. It was doubtless that John had little to worry about in the way of money, but Winston supposed too, that was also a yet another approximation of his new, unmoored life. Maybe John even thought he was free.

”Have you ever been to a wedding before?” Winston said, giving Marcus a sidelong glance. 

Marcus’s gaze did not move. He was usually so good at staring that people didn’t know that he was looking at them, not unlike a lizard straining for sunlight. “You mean, ones where I don’t have to off the groom? Not really. Funerals are more my bag.” 

“Funerals don’t often come with an open bar,” Winston pointed out. “Let’s get a drink.” 

“Yeah, but wakes do,” Marcus said, falling into step beside him. “The good ones, anyway.” 

“Do you think he knew I wrote the speech?” Winston pondered while they waited in the queue. 

“Don’t know.” Marcus shrugged, “The speech had a lot of big words. Probably a dead giveaway.” 

Winston bought them both doubles of the bar’s most expensive whiskey and the bartender balked at this. He only agreed to serve them after Winston agreed to pay for the drinks out of pocket. Winston made a note to put in a complaint for lackluster service. 

Marcus was amused. “What were you saying about open bars?” 

“I can make Jonathan pay me back for it later,” Winston said, putting his nose to the rim of the glass and taking a long sniff. 

“Can you?” Marcus looked again. “He looks occupied.” 

“Do you know much about whiskey?” Winston asked. Marcus’s usual drink of choice at the Continental was soda and bitters, but that said nothing about the man save that he preferred to keep busy and sharp. 

“No, but it smells like wood polish,” Marcus said. “And it’s going to get me drunk enough to hit on one of the bridesmaids.” 

Winston thought that comment in poor taste, but he was going to let that go. This was probably just about acceptable chatter at a wake. He stuck to the subject. “The devil’s cut is something that stays, you know. There’s nothing else like it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Winston said, “Whiskey’s expensive because a lot of the yield evaporates. They call that the angel’s share, wherein the alcohol goes up to Heaven to make sure that St. Peter and company have a great time. The devil’s cut, on the other hand, stays in the barrel, at the mercy of the wood’s porosity.”

Marcus looked at him narrowly. “What?” 

“Everyone is hollow in some way, Marcus, we just have the wherewithal to recognize it in ourselves.” Winston said, “It’s not a terrible thing.”

“I’m still going to hit on a bridesmaid. I’m sure she’s going to be porous.” Marcus said. But this time, as he drank his whiskey, he seemed to taste it properly. “You ought to try it on, maybe chicks will dig the accent. And the suit.” 

“I despair.” Winston checked the time, adjusting the sleeve of his perfectly appropriate linen suit. “Don’t pretend that you don’t agree with me.”

“Sure.” Marcus’s mouth twisted. “Wood is also subject to rot, to mites, to breakage. It doesn’t stay as long as you think it does.”

This time, Winston didn’t answer. 

Winston and Marcus remained next to the bar, mostly because it made the bartender nervous. Maybe if he broke another glass, he’d get fired. Winston was always interested in the strange coincidences of natural selection.

Together, they stood and enjoyed for perhaps the last time, the feeling of John Wick’s waning presence seeping through their porous, hollow bones.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](https://www.grappamarolo.it/en/stories/the-angels-share-the-devils-cut/) talks more about the devil's cut and angel's share. I probably took some artistic liberties but I found this idea so fascinating.


End file.
